


Silky Surprise

by justdk



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Light Bondage, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-20 05:54:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13711254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justdk/pseuds/justdk
Summary: Kavinsky's bad night gets better





	Silky Surprise

**Author's Note:**

> Anonymous Valentine's Prompt: "For the Valentine’s Day poll can I request a nsfw with prokopinsky? . The idea that proko maybe surprise k with some sexy sheets and a sexy outfit when k comes home annoyed for some reason but sees his proko and he just reminds how much someone loves ?"

Being a hedonist was hard work.

Kavinsky knew what Ronan, Gansey, and the entire fucking school – probably all of Henrietta, too – thought of him: rich fuckboy made untouchable by stacks of cash and dubious connections to the mob. If only it was that simple.

Being obscenely rich _did_ help. Being dangerous and “unstable” also helped but maintaining that image was draining. Another weekend. Another party. Another hangover. Another Monday. Another day at Aglionby and another night racing the streets. Another round of drinks. Another episode of fucking. Another sunrise seen with sleep-deprived eyes. Another dream. Another nightmare. Staying high was about the only way he could cope with all the bullshit.

—–

Exhaustion and an unsatisfying night of baiting Lynch has Kavinsky out of sorts by the time he returns to the house his mother bought. The mind games with Ronan have him craving chemical oblivion so when he sees Prokopenko’s Golf parked in the drive Kavinsky’s irritation spikes. He has an itch that can’t be scratched and being around another person, even darling, devoted Proko, is the last thing he wants.

He storms into the house, grabs a random bottle from the fridge, and heads to his room. He’s ready to kick Prokopenko out and get wasted in private but that plan is wrecked as soon as he opens the door to his bedroom.

For starters, the room is lit by dozens of saint candles and smells like hot, rose-scented wax. The flickering candlelight gives his room an entirely different vibe, something closed off and secret and… special. Someone has cleaned because the floor is clear and the bed is made and laid out on the bed is Prokopenko.

Against the clean white sheets Proko looks like an angel stripped of its wings and halo. He’s wearing baby pink thigh high socks and silky white shorts that are so small they could be briefs. His ankles are tied together with lace ribbons and his arms are bound behind his back. Kavinsky wonders how long Proko has been waiting like this, his body turned on his side to relieve the discomfort of his restrained arms. A pale pink blindfold covers his eyes and Kavinsky isn’t sure if he is asleep or not; he’s perfectly still, except for the slow rise and fall of his chest. His silver nipple piercings wink in the candlelight.

Prokopenko is an imperfect creature but in this light, dolled up to please, he is superb. Everything about him is a contrast to the staged pastels and purity: the tattoos scrawled on his light skin, the plugs in his ears, the blue hair, the scars and bruises.

Kavinsky drops his keys on the floor and strips off his jacket, letting it fall to floor, too. His boots go next. He opens the bottle and drinks down half the contents in one go, pulling a face at the tart sweetness and the welcome burn of alcohol.

He can’t take his eyes off Prokopenko, can’t figure out what the play is. Their relationship, such as it is, consists of partying, racing, and fucking. It isn’t romantic. It isn’t _this_.

Kavinsky drains the bottle and contemplates smashing it against the wall, startling Proko awake. He imagines using the shards on Proko, on himself, turning the sheets a bloody mess, making a sacrilege of this… Kavinsky can’t find the right word… tableau? He doesn’t. Instead he sets the bottle down next to a candle of the Virgin of Guadalupe and pulls off his shirt.

His weight on the mattress brings Prokopenko out of his slumber. Proko groans quietly before licking his lips.

“K?” Proko turns his face towards him. His fair eyebrows are drawn together like he’s confused or worried. Kavinsky wonders how much of this staging is Proko’s idea. Not that it really matters now.

“It’s me,” Kavinsky says. He lays his palm on Proko’s thigh, caresses the stretch of bare skin above his sock. Proko shivers and Kavinsky watches with interest as Proko’s rosy nipples, already semi-erect from his piercings, perk up. He leans down and gives Proko’s right nipple a rough teasing with his tongue. Proko gasps and his body trembles. _So easy_. Kavinsky slides his fingers beneath the loose silk of Proko’s shorts and pinches his ass. More groans and a stifled plea, “K…”

“What is it, baby?” Kavinsky asks, feeling indulgent.

“Is this good? Am I good?” It’s unfair. Kavinsky thinks of several terrible things he could say that would make Proko cry, make him fucking miserable. Instead he chooses to occupy his mouth with other things.

He lays Proko on his back, putting a pillow behind him to ease the tension in his arms. He pulls off the ribbon twined around Proko’s ankles and ties it in a sloppy bow around Proko’s neck. He doesn’t bother taking the shorts off. He spreads Proko’s legs and pulls them over his shoulders. Proko lets out a surprised cry followed by a choked off expletive as Kavinsky rubs his jaw along his inner thighs. Proko’s skin is soft and smells faintly like lavender. The fabric of Proko’s ridiculous socks brushes against his back. Kavinsky bows his head and mouths at Proko’s shorts, moving up the hard line of Proko’s erect cock.

“Oh god…” Proko cries out when Kavinsky carefully nips at the head of his cock. Kavinsky shoves two fingers into Proko’s mouth, letting him suckle them, keeping him quiet. He resumes his teasing, soaking the silk with his saliva. He can taste Proko’s pre-come seeping through the fabric and sucks harder there, digging his tongue in with cruel precision. Proko jerks beneath him, moaning wetly around his fingers. Kavinsky’s so hard he wants go ahead and jerk off so he can keep tormenting Proko, maybe get a couple fingers up his ass, too, and see what sounds he makes.

The allure of fucking Proko in the shorts wins out.

Kavinsky pulls back and leans over the bed to retrieve the lube Proko had left out on the table. There are condoms, as well, extra special ones that Kavinsky had dreamed up. He doesn’t bother taking off his jeans because Proko, masochist that he is, claims to prefer the abrasiveness of denim and the ragged edge of the zipper.

Proko’s legs sprawl to the side and he’s a sight: flushed and sweating, his hard on tenting the silk that’s clinging and nearly transparent with their fluids. His chest is heaving and his throat is stretched out beautifully, the skin peppered with fading bruises; Kavinsky plans to leave more before the night is over.

“You okay?” Kavinsky asks before he flips Proko on his stomach.

“Yeah,” Proko huffs. “I just… I feel like I’m about to lose it…”

Kavinsky smirks and settles a pillow under Proko’s hips. With his hands tied behind him this won’t be very comfortable for Proko but he’s not protesting so Kavinsky goes ahead and positions Proko like he wants him. He eases the fabric of the shorts to the side and spreads Proko’s cheeks. He breathes over Proko’s skin, brushes his lips along the sweet swell of Proko’s ass. He bites down once and Proko swears and bucks before Kavinsky settles him with a hand on the back of his neck.

“K…” Proko whines at the first touch of his tongue, “K, I already… already took care of that…”

The taste of cherry vanilla lube is sweet on Kavinsky’s tongue and he shuts his eyes, focusing on the sensation and heat. He laps at Proko, making him writhe and whimper. He takes his time, drawing out Proko’s torment and pleasure.

“Tell me what you did,” Kavinsky commands before he returns to the business of working Proko open. He kneads at Proko’s hips, holds him steady to keep him from thrusting back.

“Ah!” Proko twitches and pants. “I fucked myself… with my fingers before they tied me up.” He groans loudly when Kavinsky switches from tongue to fingers, easily sliding two in. “Thought of you… the whole time… wanted this.”

“Did you get off?”

“Mmmm. No… I waited… for you.”

Kavinsky is touched and he tells Proko that. His fingers find Proko’s sweet spot and he rubs at it, not hurrying, getting Proko absolutely wild.

“How’s that feel, baby?” He asks. He can barely get the words out; can barely focus on anything other than Proko’s tight heat and the way his body responses to him.

Proko sobs wordlessly and Kavinsky wraps an arm around his chest and pulls him up, giving him relief from his awkward position.

“Fuck me,” Proko pleads, his voice broken.

So Kavinsky does. He’s been teasing and playing up until now but when he takes Proko it’s rough. Apparently not rough enough for Proko, who begs with a repeated litany of “harder, faster, don’t stop, oh god fuck me just like that…” Kavinsky tears the shorts without meaning to. The zipper on his jeans scrapes Proko’s skin raw.

Kavinsky drags Proko up, holding him against his chest, one hand wrapped around his throat, squeezing, while he fucks up into him with short, hard thrusts. When he finally comes he tights his grasp on Proko’s neck, making him gag. Proko’s climax is violent and it feels like he’s falling to pieces in Kavinsky’s arms. Kavinsky strokes him, kisses his shoulders and back, calming him before pulling out.

Proko’s a shivering, soiled mess. Kavinsky unties his arms and rubs them, restoring circulation. He settles Proko on the stained sheets, removes his blindfold, and kisses him for several long moments. Proko touches him hesitantly, stroking his cheek, his neck, brushing fingers through his hair. Kavinsky allows it. He can’t say no when Proko is looking at him like that.

They clean up and Kavinsky pulls a blanket over them and lets Proko curl up next to him.

“You were good,” Kavinsky says. He kisses Proko’s forehead and ignores the pang in his chest.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, K,” Proko murmurs.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr @dkafterdark


End file.
